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170 pages

English

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“Moor Fires” is a 1916 novel written by E. H. Young. Emily Hilda Daniell (1880–1949) was an English children's writer, novelist, mountaineer, and advocate for female suffrage who wrote under the pen name E. H. Young. Despite being almost completely unheard of now, Young was a celebrated author who produced numerous best sellers during her time. The third of her novels, “Moor Fires” centres around the lives of twin sisters Helen and Miriam Caniper, who live with their stepmother and two brothers on a stretch of wild moorland. Loving, domestic, and fond of her home, Helen couldn't be more different than her twin, who wishes to leave and spends her time tormenting any young man who she comes across. Other works by this author include: “Corn of Wheat” (1910), “Yonder” (1912), and “Celia” (1937). Read & Co. Books is republishing this classic novel now in a new edition complete with “Introductory Poems” by Edwin Waugh and Emily Brontë.

Informations

Publié par	Read Books Ltd.
Date de parution	14 août 2020
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781528790628
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	2 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0500€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

MOOR FIRES
By
E. H. YOUNG
WITH INTRODUCTORY POEMS
By
EDWIN WAUGH
and
EMILY BRONTË

First published in 1916

Copyright © 2020 Read & Co. Books
This edition is published by Read & Co. Books, an imprint of Read & Co.
This book is copyright and may not be reproduced or copied in any way without the express permission of the publisher in writing.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Read & Co. is part of Read Books Ltd. For more information visit www.readandcobooks.co.uk

Contents
E. H. Young
OH THE WILD , WILD MOORS
By Edwin Waugh
LOUD WITHOUT THE WIND WAS ROARING
By Emily Brontë
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
C HAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
C HAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER XXVI
C HAPTER XXVII
CH APTER XXVIII
CHAPTER XXIX
CHAPTER XXX
CHAPTER XXXI
C HAPTER XXXII
CH APTER XXXIII
C HAPTER XXXIV
CHAPTER XXXV
C HAPTER XXXVI
CH APTER XXXVII
CHA PTER XXXVIII
C HAPTER XXXIX

E. H. Young
Emily Hilda Young was born in born in Whitley (now known as Whitley Bay), Northumberland, England, on 21st March, 1880. She attended Gateshead Secondary School and Penrhos College, in Colwyn Bay, Wales. As a young woman, Young developed a keen interest in classical and modern philosophy. She became a supporter of the suffragette movement, and started publishing novels. Her first two works were A Corn of Wheat (1910) and Yon der (1912).
When World War I broke out in 1914, Young worked first as a stables groom and then in a munitions factory. Her husband was sadly killed at the Third Battle of Ypres in 1917. The following year she moved to Sydenham Hill, London to join her lover, now the headmaster of the public school Alleyn's, and his wife in a ménage à trois. Young occupied a separate flat in their house and was addressed as 'Mrs Daniell'; this concealed the unconventional arrangement. This drastic change in circumstances seems to have been a creative catalyst. Through the twenties and thirties, Young published seven novels: A Bridge Dividing (1922), William (1925), The Vicar's Daughter (1927), Miss Mole (1930), Jenny Wren (1932), Celia (1937) and The Curate's Wife (1934).
In the mid-thirties, Young and her lover (Mr Henderson) moved to Bradford-on-Avon in Wiltshire. During the Second World War, Young worked actively in air raid precautions. She lived in Wiltshire with Henderson until her death on 8th August, 1949, aged 69. Although popular in her time, Young's work has nearly vanished today. In 1980 however, a four-part series based on her novels was shown on BBC television as Hannah. Around this time, the feminist publishing house Virago also reprinted several of her books.

OH THE WILD, WILD MOORS
By Edwin Waugh
I
My heart's away in the lonely hills,
Where I would gladly be—
On the rolling ridge of Blackstone Edge,
Where the wild wind whistles free!
There oft in careless youth I roved,
When summer days were fine;
And the meanest flower of the heathery waste
Delights this heart of mine!
Oh, the lonely moors, the breezy moors,
And the stormy hills so free;
Oh, the wild, wild moors; the wild, wild moors,
The sweet wild moors for me.
II
I fain would stroll on lofty Knowl,
And Rooley Moor again;
Or wildly stray one long bright day
In Turvin's bonny glen!
The thought of Wardle's breezy height
Fills all my heart with glee,
And the distant view of the hills so blue
Bring tears into my e'e!
Oh, the lonely moors, the breezy moors,
And the stormy hills so free;
Oh, the wild, wild moors; the wild, wild moors,
The sweet wild moors for me.
III
Oh, blessed sleep, that brings in dreams
My native hills to me;
The heathery wilds, the rushing streams,
Where once I wandered free!
'Tis a glimpse of life's sweet morning light,
A bright angelic ray,
That steals into the dusky night,
And fades with waking day!
Oh, the lonely moors, the breezy moors,
And the stormy hills so free;
Oh, the wild, wild moors; the wild, wild moors,
The sweet wild moors for me.

LOUD WITHOUT THE WIND WAS ROARING
By Emily Brontë
Loud without the wind was roaring
Through th'autumnal sky;
Drenching wet, the cold rain pouring,
Spoke of winter nigh.
All too like that dreary eve,
Did my exiled spirit grieve.

Grieved at first, but grieved not long,
Sweet—how softly sweet!—it came;
Wild words of an ancient song,
Undefined, without a name.

"It was spring, and the skylark was singing:"
Those words they awakened a spell;
They unlocked a deep fountain, whose springing,
Nor absence, nor distance can quell.

In the gloom of a cloudy November
They uttered the music of May ;
They kindled the perishing ember
Into fervour that could not decay.

Awaken, o'er all my dear moorland,
West-wind, in thy glory and pride!
Oh! call me from valley and lowland,
To walk by the hill-torrent's side!

It is swelled with the first snowy weather;
The rocks they are icy and hoar,
And sullenly waves the long heather,
And the fern leaves are sunny no more.

There are no yellow stars on the mountain
The bluebells have long died away
From the brink of the moss-bedded fountain—
From the side of the wintry brae.

But lovelier than corn-fields all waving
In emerald, and vermeil, and gold,
Are the heights where the north-wind is raving,
And the crags where I wandered of old.

It was morning: the bright sun was beaming;
How sweetly it brought back to me
The time when nor labour nor dreaming
Broke the sleep of the happy and free!

But blithely we rose as the dawn-heaven
Was melting to amber and blue,
And swift were the wings to our feet given,
As we traversed the meadows of dew.

For the moors! For the moors, where the short grass
Like velvet beneath us should lie!
For the moors! For the moors, where each high pass
Rose sunny against the clear sky!

For the moors, where the linnet was trilling
Its song on the old granite stone;
Where the lark, the wild sky-lark, was filling
Every breast with delight like its own!

What language can utter the feeling
Which rose, when in exile afar,
On the brow of a lonely hill kneeling,
I saw the brown heath growing there?

It was scattered and stunted, and told me
That soon even that would be gone:
It whispered, "The grim walls enfold me,
I have bloomed in my last summer's sun."

But not the loved music, whose waking
Makes the soul of the Swiss die away,
Has a spell more adored and heartbreaking
Than, for me, in that blighted heath lay.

The spirit which bent 'neath its power,
How it longed—how it burned to be free!
If I could have wept in that hour,
Those tears had been heaven to me.

Well—well; the sad minutes are moving,
Though loaded with trouble and pain;
And some time the loved and the loving
Shall meet on the mountains again!

MOOR FIRES
CHAPTER I
In the dusk of a spring evening, Helen Caniper walked on the long road from the town. Making nothing of the laden basket she carried, she went quickly until she drew level with the high fir-wood which stood like a barrier against any encroachment on the moor, then she looked back and saw lights darting out to mark the streets she had left behind, as though a fairy hand illuminated a giant Chr istmas-tree.
Among the other trees, black and mysterious on the hill, a cold wind was moaning. "It's the night wind," Helen murmured. The moor was inhabited by many winds, and she knew them all, and it was only the night wind that cried among the trees, for, fearless though it seemed, it had a dread of the hours that made it. The fir-trees, their bare trunks like a palisade, swayed gently, and Helen's skirts flapped about her ankles. More lights glimmered in the town, and she turned t owards home.
The moor stretched now on either hand until it touched a sky from which all the colour had not departed, and the road shone whitely, pale but courageous as it kept its lonely path. Helen's feet tapped clearly as she hurried on, and when she approached the road to Halkett's Farm, the sound of her going was mingled with that of hoofs, and an old horse, drawing a dog-cart, laboured round the corner. It was the horse Dr. Mackenzie had always driven up the long road; it was now driven by his son, and when he saw that some one motioned him to stop, the young doctor drew up. He bent forward to see her.
"It's Helen," he said. "Oh, Helen, h ow are you?"